That flustered splash of red is a delight to see. It is not so much that John is good at reading people (though he is), but Harry is such an open book, practically broadcasting his trepidation and worry from every shift of his long frame, the way he averts his gaze, and the darkening flush over his skin. Perfect is not easy to hear, it seems.
And when Harry starts singing at him, it's just a confirmation of his discomfort. He doesn't have a bad voice, not at all, (though he'd do much better with something in a lower register). But it's distraction. It's a feint, from a man who is used to such tactics, because anyone who thought Harry Dresden couldn't play strategy on the fly was missing the point of most of his antics. Pushing for reaction, pushing for specific reactions, it's how he operates.
There is a rule in combat: find what your enemy wants, then do the opposite. Harry is not an enemy by any means but some of the principle still rings true. This is John's cue to roll his eyes or do something to shut the man up.
No such luck. John just smiles and thinks perfect again as he stretches up and reaches until he can trace the pale, soft skin of his underarms up to the wrist. His mouth finds that same stretch of skin, so vulnerable and under-exposed to sunlight and other elements. His mouth leaves faint marks along that expanse of skin as his hands take measure: Dresden's long limbs, the compact but strong muscles, the freckles that are sprayed out over his shoulders and upper arms like a painter flicked a brush at him.
Like this, Harry's bent up under him, and he won't keep him like this long, but having him all in reach for the moment lets him show so appreciation with grasping hands. Eventually one catches on the sticky, stained cut of Harry's hip and uses that purchase to shift them into a extravagantly dirty grind, a rhythmic circling of their hips together, cocks pressed tight between. When John speaks, its around his faint panting: "Believe me," he says in reply to Harry's musical attempt to dodge the question, "I do."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2013-01-01 05:38 am (UTC)And when Harry starts singing at him, it's just a confirmation of his discomfort. He doesn't have a bad voice, not at all, (though he'd do much better with something in a lower register). But it's distraction. It's a feint, from a man who is used to such tactics, because anyone who thought Harry Dresden couldn't play strategy on the fly was missing the point of most of his antics. Pushing for reaction, pushing for specific reactions, it's how he operates.
There is a rule in combat: find what your enemy wants, then do the opposite. Harry is not an enemy by any means but some of the principle still rings true. This is John's cue to roll his eyes or do something to shut the man up.
No such luck. John just smiles and thinks perfect again as he stretches up and reaches until he can trace the pale, soft skin of his underarms up to the wrist. His mouth finds that same stretch of skin, so vulnerable and under-exposed to sunlight and other elements. His mouth leaves faint marks along that expanse of skin as his hands take measure: Dresden's long limbs, the compact but strong muscles, the freckles that are sprayed out over his shoulders and upper arms like a painter flicked a brush at him.
Like this, Harry's bent up under him, and he won't keep him like this long, but having him all in reach for the moment lets him show so appreciation with grasping hands. Eventually one catches on the sticky, stained cut of Harry's hip and uses that purchase to shift them into a extravagantly dirty grind, a rhythmic circling of their hips together, cocks pressed tight between. When John speaks, its around his faint panting: "Believe me," he says in reply to Harry's musical attempt to dodge the question, "I do."